He was still touching me, his fingers exploring the rise and dip of my collarbone. I could feel that his hands were shaking and remembered what Marina had said about the withdrawals. I soaked him in, confused by how he felt so weak and yet so vital at the same time.

I saw his throat move as he swallowed before muttering a timid, “Hello.”

It broke my heart.

“Hi,” I whispered back.

I heard Marina speaking close by, but could hardly concentrate on what she said. “We’ll give you both some privacy. Alexis, if you need anything just call Jay’s phone, okay?”

“Okay,” I replied softly, not taking my eyes off King. They left, and his body leaned closer until I could feel that he was hard inside his pants, just the barest touch against the lower part of my stomach. I must have made some small sound of surprise, because his eyelids began to flutter nervously and he looked away, pulling back. He seemed embarrassed and ashamed.

“I’m sorry, I….”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he grunted, and turned, stalking back to the deck chair and picking it up off the ground. He sat and grabbed the cup, downing the rest of its contents quickly. Letting my bag fall from my shoulder, I approached the table and took the empty seat. King watched my every move warily as I opened my bag and began to remove the chessboard. I didn’t say anything, because everything seemed to have been going fine until we spoke. Sometimes words just overcomplicated things.

Memories flashed in his eyes when he saw what I had. I saw a kaleidoscope of images too, all of our private little games together. I opened up the board so that it lay flat on the table, then began to pull out the pieces. They were made of solid wood, so they were heavy, but they were quality. I’d bought the set just recently, having planned to start teaching Oliver how to play.

Oliver.

How on earth was I going to tell King he had a son? The prospect sent a sharp pang through my chest. He’d missed out on so much, and he didn’t even know the half of it yet. Slowly, I reminded myself. I needed to take this one step at a time.

King’s eyes didn’t leave me, his gaze focused on my hands as I set up the game. Picking up a pawn, I opened the play. He watched me, and a silence followed. It seemed to go on forever, and I wasn’t sure if he was going to join me. Then, almost shyly, he leaned forward and made a move of his own. My heart leapt. It was such a tiny thing, and yet the fact that he was playing meant the world to me.

We sat in quiet for a long while. I kept taking surreptitious glances at him to make sure he was still engaged. Concentrating on the game seemed to be doing him good. His hands were still shaky, of course, but that couldn’t be helped. I hated that he was in pain and there was nothing I could do to ease it. We were silent for so long that I startled when he spoke, staring at the board as though calculating his next move.

“How did you find me?” he asked, voice low.

“Lille,” I answered simply, and his jaw seemed to tighten.

“That girl never stops. Bloody do-gooder.”

“I’m glad of it. I searched for you for years.”

He scratched at his beard and frowned, still not looking at me. “Why would you do that?” He seemed genuinely perplexed.

“Because I….” My words fell off, my throat clogging with emotion. I wanted to say it was because I loved him, but even when we were together, we’d never really told one another properly. We both knew; we just never said it. For some reason, I couldn’t say it now, either. I felt like it might scare him off. “Because I care a great deal for you, Oliver.”

He let out a long, pained breath. “You saw what I did.”

I didn’t speak, just waited.

“You saw what I did, and you still care for me. How is that possible?”

Disbelief coloured his every word. In an instant, I could see him that little bit clearer. He’d been so ashamed of what I’d seen him do that he thought he’d destroyed himself in my eyes. He’d thought that any future we might have had together was destroyed, too. It had all happened years ago, and yet, I could see that he was still traumatised. It had simply morphed into something else, something ugly. Self-hate.

“King,” I said, frustration building at how he wouldn’t give me his eyes. “King, would you look at me?”

He lifted his head, and wow, every time he levelled me with his stare, I felt breathless. He was still so beautiful, even changed. “What happened that day, it didn’t turn out how you think. You should have called me, made contact.”

His chair legs scraped at the ground as he shifted in place, agitated. When he spoke, his words were stilted and gruff. “What do you mean, it didn’t turn out how I think?”

I reached forward and took his hand in mine, but he pulled away sharply from my touch. “I mean that you never killed Bruce. He survived. He was sent to prison and was killed by another inmate. Your mother survived, too. She gained consciousness right after you fled.”

The air all around us seemed to still as I comprehended the stupidity of just blurting all that out. King stood angrily, shaking his head in disbelief as he pushed up violently from the table, almost knocking over the board. “No,” he said harshly. “No.”

Fuck. I was bombarding him with too much too quickly. What the hell was I thinking? King turned and stalked away, his gait slightly unsteady, like he might collapse at any moment. I wasn’t sure if it was from the withdrawals or the shock of what I’d just told him. I ran after him and caught his arm. He reared back from my touch, so I threw my body in front of his. He stopped walking, barely an inch between us.

“I’m sorry,” I said, breathless. “I shouldn’t have told you all that. Not yet. You’re not ready.”

“I’m not an invalid,” he hissed.

“I know that.”

“Well, then, don’t fucking treat me like one,” he ground out, his voice choking up as his eyes grew watery with tears. He tried blinking them away, but it was no use. Agony marked his every feature.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

His emotion didn’t surprise me so much as it made me feel about two inches tall. How bloody tactless could I be? I watched his face, seeing all the realisations fall on him like a tonne of bricks. I knew exactly what he was thinking about. He was imagining all the time he’d lost because he thought he was a murderer. He’d hidden himself away, drinking himself half to death, thinking the only other option was prison. If only he’d reached out, gotten in touch. But no, he’d been too lost, too buried under a mountain of alcohol and guilt. I could see that I was losing him, and I couldn’t let it happen. I couldn’t let him get lost in regrets and what-ifs.

 “Come back and play with me, please. We don’t have to talk, just play,” I said, desperate.

His face grew intense, and my skin prickled.

“No. You should go,” he said irritably, moving away from me.

I stepped forward, closing the distance between us once more, and stared at him openly, not hiding any of the vulnerability I felt inside. “Please, King,” I whispered.

A shudder went through him as I said his name, and we stood there, locked in a staring contest that felt like it might never end. After a long time, his distress seemed to die down as he realised I wasn’t going to give up and leave.

Finally, he ground out, “Fine. Let’s play, then.”

Relief flooded me. I gestured for him to lead the way back. He turned. I followed him until we were at the table, sitting down to continue our game. It was mid-July, and the weather was warm. It was a bit too hot for a jacket, so I shrugged out of mine and hung it over the back of my chair. A couple of the buttons on my blouse had come undone, revealing the edge of my black lacy bra. I hurried to button it back up, feeling his attention on me. If anything, my boobs had gotten slightly bigger over the years, probably because I’d put on a few pounds after I had Oliver. King wore no expression, but his eyes practically scorched me, and I was already too hot from the sun. I was a little glad, though. At least this way he might be thinking of something other than how fucked up the past was.